The Skirt Read online

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  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are

  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,

  or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1992 by Gary Soto

  Illustrations copyright © 1992 by Eric Velasquez

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-83020-3

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Yearling Books You Will Enjoy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Afterword

  After stepping off the bus, Miata Ramirez turned around and gasped, “Ay!” The school bus lurched, coughed a puff of stinky exhaust, and made a wide turn at the corner. The driver strained as he worked the steering wheel like the horns of a bull.

  Miata yelled for the driver to stop. She started running after the bus. Her hair whipped against her shoulders. A large book bag tugged at her arm with each running step, and bead earrings jingled as they banged against her neck.

  “My skirt!” she cried loudly. “Stop!”

  She had forgotten her folklórico skirt. It was still on the bus. She and her best friend, Ana, both fourth graders, had been bothered by boys. The two girls moved from seat to seat. The boys followed and taunted them with a rubber frog. Giggling, the girls moved away from Larry and Juan. They especially moved far away from Rodolfo, a boy with green eyes and hair so shiny black that it was nearly blue. He was trying to write his name on their arms and asked them to play basketball with him after school.

  “Come on,” he had argued. “It’s Friday. There is no school tomorrow.”

  But Miata and Ana had ignored him as they moved from seat to seat. They looked out the window and nibbled secretly on animal crackers when the boys weren’t bothering them.

  “Please stop!” Miata yelled as she ran after the bus. Her legs kicked high and her lungs burned from exhaustion.

  She needed that skirt. On Sunday after church she was going to dance folklórico. Her troupe had practiced for three months. If she was the only girl without a costume, her parents would wear sunglasses out of embarrassment. Miata didn’t want that.

  The skirt had belonged to her mother when she was a child in Hermosillo, Mexico. What is Mom going to think? Miata asked herself. Her mother was always scolding Miata for losing things. She lost combs, sweaters, books, lunch money, and homework. One time she even lost her shoes at school. She had left them on the baseball field where she had raced against two boys. When she returned to get them, the shoes were gone.

  Worse, she had taken her skirt to school to show off. She wanted her friends to see it. The skirt was old, but a rainbow of shiny ribbons still made it pretty. She put it on during lunchtime and danced for some of her friends. Even a teacher stopped to watch.

  What am I going to do now? Miata asked herself. She slowed to a walk. Her hair had come undone. She felt hot and sticky.

  She could hear the bus stopping around the corner. Miata thought of running through a neighbor’s yard. But that would only get her in trouble.

  “Oh, man,” Miata said under her breath. She felt like throwing herself on the ground and crying. But she knew that would only make things worse. Her mother would ask, “Why do you get so dirty all the time?”

  Miata turned the corner and saw a paper plane sail from the rear window. It hung in the air for a second and then crashed into a ragged rosebush as the bus drove off. She carefully plucked the plane from the bush. When she unfolded it she discovered Rodolfo’s math quiz. He had a perfect score. A gold star glittered under his name.

  “He’s smart,” she said. “For a boy.”

  She crumpled the paper plane and looked up. The bus was now out of sight. So was her beautiful skirt.

  “Darn it,” Miata muttered. Shrugging her book bag over her shoulder, she started walking home. Miata wanted to blame the boys but knew it was her fault. She should have told the boys to leave Ana and her alone. She should have snatched that frog and thrown it out the window.

  What am I going to do now? she asked herself. She prayed that Ana would find the skirt on the bus. She’s got to see it, Miata thought. It’s right there. Just look, Ana.

  As Miata rounded the corner onto her block she saw her brother, Little Joe, and his friend Alex. They were walking with cans smashed onto the heels of their shoes, laughing and pushing each other. Their mouths were fat with gum.

  Little Joe waved a dirty hand at Miata. Miata waved back and tried to smile.

  “Start us?” Joe asked. “We’re going to have a race.”

  Miata stopped and said, “Okay, but make it fast.”

  Little Joe and Alex lined up. Bodies leaning, they were ready to race. She counted, uno … dos …, and on tres they were off. Miata pressed her hands to her ears. The racket of the cans was deafening.

  Her brother was the first to touch the tree.

  “I won,” Little Joe said.

  But Alex argued because one of Little Joe’s cans had come off his shoe. “You cheated,” Alex yelled.

  “No, I didn’t,” Little Joe yelled back. His hands were doubled into fists.

  Miata left them arguing. She climbed the steps to her house. She was troubled. If Ana doesn’t pick up the skirt, she thought, I’ll have to dance in a regular skirt.

  It was Friday, late afternoon. It looked like a long weekend of worry.

  Miata’s family had moved from Los Angeles. Their new home was in Sanger, a small town in the San Joaquin Valley. Her father had gotten tired of the bad air and the long commute to his job at an auto-parts store. One day when he returned home, he called his wife and children to the kitchen table. He asked what they thought about moving to a different place.

  At first Miata didn’t like the idea of moving. But now she was living in a house, not an apartment. Now she was in the dance club at school. Now she had
a best friend, Ana. The move had been good for Miata.

  Her mother, Alicia, came into the living room just as Miata was throwing her book bag onto the floor. The book bag landed with a crash.

  “¡Ay, Dios!” her mother chirped. “You scared me, prieta. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Her mother was holding an old cloth diaper. It was now her cleaning rag. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt splotched with old paint. She had been cleaning the house. The piles of newspapers were thrown out, the magazines were neatly stacked, and the air smelled fresh as a lemon. The crocheted afghan on the couch was straight. The water in the aquarium was clear, not green. Her father’s ashtray had been emptied and wiped clean.

  Miata decided to tell her mother about the skirt later. She gave her mother a hug and went to her bedroom. She sat on her bed, counting the minutes until Ana would arrive. She looked down at her wristwatch. It was three thirty-five.

  Ana’s getting off the bus right now, she told herself. And I bet she has my skirt.

  In her mind, Miata could see Ana. Little Ana had curly hair and a galaxy of freckles on her face. Miata had known one other Mexican girl who had freckles. But that girl lived in Los Angeles, and she wasn’t as nice as Ana.

  Miata did her math homework, which took only ten minutes because math was her best subject, but still the telephone didn’t ring. Miata grew so impatient she counted to one hundred, backward and forward.

  Miata scooted off the bed and went to the hallway, where the telephone sat on a small table. She picked up the telephone; a long buzz rang in her ear.

  Miata hung up and returned to her bedroom, where she changed into her play clothes. She figured that by the time she had finished changing, the telephone would ring. It would be Ana calling.

  “Come on, Ana, just call,” she whined.

  The last button on her shirt was buttoned. She was completely dressed. Miata took off her earrings and wristwatch. She straightened her horse-print bedspread. She put away the clothes that were on the floor. She even sorted her crayons. But the telephone still didn’t ring.

  “Please call, Ana,” she whispered. She sat down on her bed and started poking at a sliver in her little finger. The sliver was from the bench where they ate lunch. It had been bothering her all day.

  Miata decided to call Ana. She tiptoed to the hallway. She dialed Ana’s house and heard, “Bueno.”

  In Spanish, Miata asked if Ana was home from school.

  “Todavía no está aquí,” the voice said. Miata figured that it was Ana’s grandmother. Miata asked if Ana would call her when she got home. The grandmother said that she would.

  Miata went to the kitchen. Her mother was peeling potatoes. The radio was turned to the Mexican station.

  “How was school?” her mother asked. “Here, you finish this.” She handed the half-skinned potato and the potato peeler to Miata. Miata started working, the skin of potatoes flying into the sink.

  “School was okay,” Miata answered. “I got an A on my spelling test. Mrs. Garcia says that I have a good memory.” Just as she said this she remembered her skirt. If my memory is so great, she thought, why did I forget my skirt on the bus?

  “Are you ready for the dance this weekend?” Miata’s mother asked. “Ana’s mother called and said you two should practice Sunday morning before church. But I told her we didn’t have time.”

  Miata didn’t say anything. She worked faster, the peels flying like rubber bands.

  “Your father will be so proud,” her mother said. She opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of meat.

  Miata was peeling her third potato when the telephone rang. She dropped the potato and potato peeler and screamed, “I got it.”

  She raced through the living room to the hallway. On the fourth ring she answered the telephone. “Ana?” Miata asked, her heart pounding.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you find it?”

  “Find what?” Ana’s voice was confused.

  “My skirt! It was on the bus. Didn’t you see it?” Miata’s voice was desperate.

  “Your skirt?”

  “I left my skirt on the bus. Didn’t you see it?”

  “No. You mean you lost your folklórico skirt?”

  Miata could hear sounds in the kitchen. The steak was sizzling in a frying pan. Water was running from the faucet. She could hear her father. He was home from work and laughing about something. But would he be in a good mood when she told him that she had lost her skirt?

  “Come over tomorrow morning,” Miata told Ana. “You have to help me out.” She hung up and returned to the kitchen to peel potatoes.

  At dinner, they had steak, frijoles, and papas fritas. They also had a small salad that was mostly lettuce. This was her father’s favorite meal. Everyone in the family, even Little Joe, called it carne del viernes. This was their father’s reward for a week of hard work: a large meal and then a baseball game on television.

  Miata’s father, José, now worked as a welder. He worked mostly on tractors and trailers. The money was good, nearly as good as his pay in Los Angeles.

  Her mother stabbed a tomato slice hiding behind a sheet of lettuce. She nudged Miata. “Tell Papi about your spelling.”

  “I got an A,” she said, smiling. “Next week I could be spelling bee champion if Dolores doesn’t beat me.” Dolores was a small girl with a big brain.

  “Qué bueno,” her father said as he cut a papa with his fork. Steam rose from the parted papa. “Spelling is important,” he said between bites. “One day you will get a good job if you know lots of words.”

  “You could be a doctor,” her mother said.

  “Mi’ja, you could fix me up,” her father said. He rotated his aching arm. Her father was always getting injured. Today a pipe had fallen from the truck and struck his arm. A purplish bruise had already appeared.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” her mother asked. She put down her fork. Her face was dark with worry.

  “Does it hurt?” Little Joe asked.

  “Only when I do this,” José said. He stood up and punched Little Joe on the arm, softly.

  Little Joe laughed and told his father, “That doesn’t hurt.”

  The conversation turned to sports. Although they were living in the valley, José could pick up the Los Angeles Dodgers on television. It was a beautiful May. His Dodgers were two up on the San Francisco Giants. This made him happy. Last year the Giants had beaten them.

  “Next year, Little Joe,” he said to his son, “you’ll be eight and you can start playing ball.”

  Little Joe looked at his father but didn’t answer. His cheeks were stuffed with tortilla.

  Miata’s father finished his meal. He patted his stomach and went to the living room with a glass of iced tea. Miata helped her mother in the kitchen.

  “That was great, Mom,” Miata said. She scraped the plates and put them in the sink.

  “Thank you,” her mother said. Her mother was happy as a singing canary. She turned on the radio. “I’m going to be so proud on Sunday.”

  “What’s happening Sunday?” Little Joe asked. A milk mustache gleamed on his lip.

  “Miata’s dancing,” her mother said.

  Miata swallowed hard. She thought of her skirt. Will I be able to get it by Sunday? she wondered.

  While they were drying the dishes they heard a loud sigh from the living room. Miata looked at her mother. Her mother looked at her and asked, “¿Qué pasó?” Miata shrugged her shoulders.

  “The game is rained out,” her father groaned over the sound of the television. “How could it rain in San Diego? And on a Friday.”

  Disappointed, her father came into the kitchen with his empty glass. He rinsed it out and placed it on the drainboard. He told Miata, “Let’s go get some ice cream, then.”

  Miata nearly jumped into her father’s arms. She dried her hands on a dish towel and pulled her father to the front door. She hoped he would buy cookies and cream, her favorite.

  They g
ot into his truck. It was a ’68 Chevy with windows that rattled. The old truck could get up to sixty miles per hour. Three red wires dangled from the broken radio. The speedometer was broken. Its needle leaped like a flea now and then, but it always fell back.

  The Ramirez family was new in town, but made friends easily. A woman watering her flower bed waved at the passing truck. Miata waved back with both of her hands.

  “It’s nice here,” her father said as he looked around the neighborhood. “The air is clean as a whistle.” He turned on the broken radio and began to whistle a song.

  Since moving to Sanger, Miata’s father seemed happier. He had gotten tired of Los Angeles. He had grown up on a farm in Mexico. City life was not for him.

  At the gas station a friend from work waved. Her father stopped whistling. He waved, tooted his horn twice, and yelled, “The game’s rained out.”

  “But the Giants are on channel twenty-four,” the man yelled. He was inflating an inner tube.

  “Los Gigantes,” her father sneered, and shook his head. He was a loyal Dodgers fan, through and through.

  They passed the school. Miata was reminded of her folklórico skirt. She had been talking loudly over the roar of the engine, telling her father about Little Joe and the cans on his shoes. But she stopped her chatter and bit her lip. She stared silently at the fenced parking lot. The buses were kept there. They passed the buses and Miata got on her knees. She looked back at them.

  It’s in one of them, she thought. Me and Ana have to get it tomorrow.

  At the store her father bought a carton of Neapolitan ice cream. It was strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. All three different flavors would dance on her tongue when they got back home.

  It was Saturday morning. Miata and Ana were sitting on the front steps of the library. The day was clear and beautiful. A single white cloud cut across the sky. A bird hopped on the lawn.

  “Just tell your mom,” Ana said. “She won’t get mad.”

  “I can’t,” Miata said. She wagged her head, and her hair swished against her shoulders. “She’s always telling me that I lose things.”